Snob Rock Express

That’s the name of my favorite playlist.

I hate to admit that anything so trite as production influences who stays on the list and who gets booted, but it does. I hate most music producers.

When Jim Morrison growled out “No one here get’s out alive,” it would not have worked with double tracked guitars and harmonized multiple vocal takes (I’m looking at you, Nickelback). It would not have conveyed the terror quotient that keeps a two chord vamp like Five to One from becoming boring. If Robby Kreiger had a slew of triple stacked rack mounted processors chopping his guitar tone into bits and bytes and spitting them into a hard drive to be rehashed and manipulated, triple over dubbed, compressed (digitally), processed, pasteurized, and packaged for mass consumption, then Roadhouse Blues would never have had the deeper, sinister side. 72 track recording ruined anything rock might have been.

Freddie King, never to be on one of those weird computerized jukeboxes they have now, was never about a bunch of after the fact production.

Metallica tried the low-fi route, thinking it may restore some of their long-dead creative process a few years ago and it almost worked. It almost worked because the song writing and immediate sound of four people playing music took precedent over the cold, cyborg like production style of Bob Rock. It didn’t work because he and Lars Ulrich got together later and took all the raw energy and digitally hacked it up and copied and pasted until they had something they thought sounded enough like their worst efforts at being heavier Bowie ripoffs. It also didn’t work because on top of a terrifically analog and gritty production of the rest of the band, the vocals were crystal clear and pristine, straight out of top 40s pop.

The thing is, people recognize this sort of trivia. Norman Greenbaum elicits an immidiate emotional reaction with the opening lick of Spirit In The Sky, one of the worst recordings ever. That’s a shitty guitar plugged into a cheap Sears amp with the speaker blown out. That’s all it was. And a distant mic. I’ve recorded demos with more wiz-bang crazy technology than Black Sabbath used on their first album. And you can tell. The emotional distance added by the eighties and nineties mentality of producers is not lost on the ear. Even if you don’t know shit about recording.

Think of any typical Nashville country music recording. They all sound alike since about 1991. Anymore, they sound alike even down to the guitar tones. It’s almost sad. And it is because every producer wants to sound the exact same. They may have individual flourishes like a special reverb algorithm or a customized way to not catch anything devastatingly wrong like, God forbid, some AC hum from a guitar. That’s why it’s all fucking boring.

I shouldn’t call it snob rock, it really isn’t. It’s interesting. It isn’t something you turn on and ignore, which makes it useless for some listening purposes.

This is not to say music is dead or anything melodramatic like that. The democratizing factors of modern computer recording and the glut of available analog machines since studios dumped it all has given rise to some really amazing basement creations. The Black Keys come to mind. They also managed to break out and gain fame without owing a studio hundreds of thousands of dollars. They are in the snob rock playlist. There’s a power to the way people perceive creation. Some people just pay more attention.

Every time you hit play, you step into a gallery. Some people want to walk around in a world of Warhol, only devoid of the irony. Some people want something more interesting. I’m not sure any of it matters, anyway. The two man ragtime band, the one where the guy plays a banjo made out of a couple pots and a drum head, will still play Main Street Bagels downtown this Saturday morning hawking cassetes and CDs out of a beat up suitcase.

Sometimes the conceptual value is in the means of your creation.

Facebook, Limerick Contest, Jesus Music, etc.

Because I know more than two people can put together something insulting.  Anyway, post before this one.  Read it.

So, today for the first time in my whole damn life I wanted to update my Facebook “what are you doing?” nonsense.  Usually, I just leave the same status up for days or weeks or months. Depends on my level of net based antipathy.  I usually wait until someone emails me or sends a Gmail IM telling me to update.  But today, today on this wonderous afternoon of rare cold and earthly beauty, I had an update.

And Facebook is broken.

Also: have you ever been getting drunk and immoral in a bar or somesuch, basically just having a good grownup time and relatives walk in?  That’s sort of what happened on Facebook.  Except the good time part.  It is no secret that most of my family is religious.  And now they want to be my friends, whcih I think is the equivalent of your mom asking for an invite to your kegger.  Not that Facebook is anywhere as entertaining as a kegger, but the analogy holds.  I do not want a bunch of family I have passive-aggressively kicked out of my life to know where I hang out and what I like to do.

I had a cousin (churchly motherfucker that he is) ask if I ever want to jam.  Fuck, man, if I wanted to strum Jesus shit, I would still be playing guitar for my dad’s church (see aside).  But really, how do you politely tell your mom she is not your Facebook friend?  How do you a guy who helped you accidentally light a huge grass fire when you were kids that he’s not allowed to know what your new phone number is or what you may be doing from day to day?

This may be melodramatic, but I think this is the first generation of people to ever face this issue.  People used to just move away and you never saw them again.

Aside:  My dad pastored a church for fifteen years.  I played in the band because I had to.  I hate church music to this day, and find most religious people to be incredibly uninspired musicians.  Sorry if this offends, and feel totally free to prove me wrong if this is you, but Buddy Guy tearing into Devil In Her makes me feel more human than Shine Jesus Shine makes me feel divine, regardless of how much retard Coldplay-esqu effects and hair gel are involved.

Oh yeah, stop ripping off Coldplay you lame-ass music type people in churches! At least rip off some Sabbath once in a while.  But I know it generally falls on deaf ears when you try to explain to people who think God finds them wonderful how to de-lame-ass-ify themselves.

Avoidance

“Hey!”

Cheerful and explosively happy, her voice cut through my calculus homework like depleted uranium. They spall.

Of course, were I not doing my homework in a bar, I would not have been distracted. But had I been doing my homework sober, it would have made much less sense. Higher math is poetry. Poets are, by law, not allowed to be sober. I figured most of what I was doing, improvising and refining, is the same thing I do in any sort of musical improvisation, so beer should make it work better. And it does. The radicals are a little less revolutionary and the integrals are a little more standoffish and the groove, the four on the floor Mississippi muddy swamp music of the universe, thuds and whoops its way into my brain and through my fingers like a 12au7 compressing outliers.

“Hey. You.”  I said unto her.

Bleach blond hair and a tiny nose ring. I worked with her a while back. She’s got on a little more tasteful clothes than she used to. Loose and flowy, not tight and pushy.

“What have you been up to?!”

“Oh. Math.”

And living under the stars and walking where giants stood and bathed and walking the ridgelines where Anasazi bled and died. And learning. And growing. And loving.

“Wow! That math has a lot of letters and stuff! That’s awesome!”

Thanks. I guess. What are you supposed to say. I gestured at the seat next to me and she said OK! and pulled off her jacket. Her tight, bulbous belly was broaching her shirt and in danger of running away. She sort of waddled/sat on the stool and ordered a diet coke.

“Wow,” I said and pointed at her passenger, “Looks like you’ve about got that one finished.”

“I know! I’m huge! I can’t wait to have this thing! One more month! Can you believe only eight months along?”

I did some panicky motivated emergency arithmetic in my head. Things were fine.

“Huh. So, you get back with ol’ dude?”

“Yeah, we got drunk one night. He decided to straighten up again after he found out about…this.”

“Well, good. I’m glad he did. Kids don’t need to be raised in a world where men are strangers.”

“I know. I was.”

“I was lucky, I guess. So, I guess you’re on maternity leave, now.”

“I am! But it’s awful, this little shit’s making my guts go nuts!”

I chuckled. She hasn’t changed a bit. “That’s what they do in there.”

We talked a while and she told me all the gossip I had missed out on at our old workplace. The same people do the same stupid stuff and the same forklift is still broken down. All the world continues without my presence, it would seem.

Later, when she waddled off to her table to meet her friends, I thought about the time in my life she had claim to. There is a poetry to the universe, but mostly its just a fucked up free verse. With the occasional limerick.

There once was a girl from Home Depot…

Take it kids! Prizes awarded!

Shameless Plugging

My friend and former jam partner, which is means we would get shitfaced and play shitty halfway coherent musical themes until the cops showed up, has a band in Texas. 

Now, while I absolutely despise MySpace, I do like when my friends do well.  The band has a handful of really good songs and an EP you might finagle them out of by offering money or weed.  

Anyway, take a listen.  

www.myspace.com/3xsbdc

The Picture Post (Yes, that IS a gunrack in my truck)

This is the infamous Scout I accidentally killed.  Well, that I put in a coma.  I figure as much as I talk about it, I might as well give people a visual.  

 

This is the view of the Bookcliffs and the future vineyard after a nice snow.

And this is my nephew practicing for being a badass like the rest of us one day.  Or fixing to break some shit, who knows.

¡John Elway, Tómame en tus Manos!

I have been explosively sick the last two days, which I hope explains it suffeciently without elaboration.  I think the people that warned everyone about the peanut butter were right.  

It’s odd for me to get stomach sick.  Obviously, anyone who has whiled away time in the dirty parts of the Pacific and Indian Rims will have the ability to metabolize raw sewage.  I haven’t got stomach  sick since my first cruise.  So, I want to die.  It’s so painful and, yes, embarassing when your guts fail you.  I can’t imagine people doing this regularly. 

The problem is definitely in the southwest guttal region, though at this time there is an insurgency taking place stomachistan.  Fucking terrorists.  

I have so many interesting observations to share with you nice people, but I don’t think you’d want to hear them.  Besides this: do you know how much it fucking sucks to have pork chili blow into your sinuses?

Destruction

I have a lot of questions.  You always do when things go that way.  When you get nothing but an email and a paragraph with a profusion of ellipses and a long drawnout goodbye that never gets around to saying it.  But I know some things about us.  Not everything was a mystery, not even at the end.

So, that’s the guy.  Whenever you deal with any sort of grownup man and woman bullshit, you always seem to run into the Other Guy.  He lurks around corners and waits at back doors and takes that look out of her eye that used to be for you and hides it in his pocket for an ego boost or for a laugh or just to be an asshole.  He’s not the portentous Other Guy. I am. 

I wasn’t the Other Guy on purpose.  If anything, I think the blame falls on her.  She failed to mention the guy.  She came looking. She simmered and sulked and softly pulled on my resistance mechanisms.  I’ve been trying to be celibate now since August.  With my moral composition, that amounted to days at a time, sometimes weeks, of no carnal corporeal contact.  So, in my defense, I wasn’t looking for her.  These things happen.  

Honesty time, kids, I cared about her.  I really did, and I hated to see her go, but on the eve of so much of my life about to happen, it was also nice.  Every time I answered the phone, I felt the leash tightening and then my thighs tightening and my feet pressing into the starting block just waiting for the signal to bolt. It hurt when she left.  A paragraph and she was back with her ex, which in girlspeak means he was never really her ex, at least as far as he knew.   And so the cold steel pulled away from my neck and the irons slid from my wrists and the slow, subtle quicksand python malingering death of all that was diverted.  It wasn’t sadness that I felt.

So now she catches you looking.  And she has one arm around him in a half hug becoming less convincing every single microsecond we can’t look away from each other.  You know her.  You’ve seen her tattoo.  You’ve seen it bend and fold with her skin, with the movements of her body, and with the passing of the night in the silver cathode ray of moonlight through your window.  And you never will again.  It’s not regret that you feel.  

And she knows she can kill you with that one smile.  And you know you can kill her with that one look.  And so the sabres rattle.  This is emotional mutually assured destruction.  It lasts a moment of strutting and peacockery too long to be innocent.  Then you two back off your detente and sheathe your Colt iron.  You give her a half smile and a small enough nod the guy exchanging gay jokes with his floppy haired, frat boy friend won’t notice.  She sees the nod and raises a slight wave.  You point your beer mug, mostly empty and slightly cooler than luke warm, at her in toast to her game.  To her sport.  And the guy catches it and looks your way. Just like you, he probably can see in a minute all the ways you’re nothing alike.

Don’t bother looking at him, and she doesn’t bother explaining.  

I will never understand women.  

But I do know this:

Judging by the way she looks at me and the way she looks back at that little fuckstick, she won’t be thinking of him tonight.

And that makes me smile. 

Some part of me is just all day evil.

Prepare To Get Lost

I don’t mean the title in a mean way.  I mean you are about to get lost.  This is not an accessible rant to any of my readers, I don’t think. I promise to discuss other loves later, but today, it’s all about heartaches and grease.  And the one of you that got the Ray Wylie Hubbard reference is probably the one who will have the least idea what I’m talking about.

See, the Accel Super Stock coil is a slightly higher voltage, epoxy sealed unit.  Damn, I see I lost two of you already.

You know how spark plugs fire a little spark that lights the magical gasoline afire?  That spark is between 25 and 50K volts that are condensed inside a giant capacitor.  The coil.  Those things break, especially if they get wet or vibrate at all.  So you can upgrade to an epoxy sealed unit that is water proof and awesome.  Unfortunately, I have removed the Accel SuperStock coil from the Anthologies of Awesome.  It is a piece of smoking dog shit.  One failed right out of the box and the exchanged unit failed a few months later.  They only warranty these things for 90 days, anymore.  It is disappointing.  I used to buy their stuff religiously and it was good for an extra four miles to the gallon or so on a 75 Scout running a 196.  Moment of silence, please.  Love you. Peace, homie. (Two fingers to the chest, tapped twice, kissed and thrust heavenward)

So, I replaced the Accel (not so) Super with a Mileage Plus from NAPA.  In so doing, I broke an old and brittle coil control wire and had to replace it.  But not until I had replaced the cap, rotor, points, and resistor (I’m not going to bother explaining any of that) trying to fix the problem.  So, I got it all running like a GOTdamn sewing machine (it IS, after all, an International) and drove it in, out, and about town for a few days.  Then something weird happened.  The engine straight died while I was driving.  This is not something that happens to older vehicles.  Since all the systems are analog, they fail slowly and let you know when disaster approaches.  I pulled over, raised yon hood, and had a friend crank the starter while I took the cap off and watched the points for spark.  They did not spark.  Because the rotor did not turn. 

Fuck. You with the drool, shake it off and wake up! Ok, this is how the points work:

The distributor is run off of a simple cam and gear system running off the spinning of the engine.  If you did not know that parts inside your engine spin, skip to the end of this post.  Then die. So, on the extreme upper end of this distributor shaft (the spinny part), there is an octagonal (on V8’s, hexagonal on v6’s, etc.) shaped piece of metal or plastic whose edges push two spring loaded contacts (the points), screwed to the top part of the distributor and held stationary, apart. When that happens, the voltage passed through them tells the coil to fire all those capacitatedvolts into the coil wire.

Ok, so this is where you may get confused.  The very top of the distributor shaft is capped by a spinning contact called the rotor.  It takes that spark (voltage from the coil wire) and connects it to one contact in the cap that sends the spark into a spark plug wire.  Thus, the cap sits on top of the whole assembly with sparkplug wires coming out of its outer ring and the coil wire running into the central contact in its middle.  So, for every rotation of the engine, and thus the distributor shaft, the points open and close, the coil receives the signal and fires 25-50K volts into the top of the cap, and the rotor (sitting on top of the distributor shaft) bridges the center contact of the rotor to the appropriate sparkplug wire on the outside of the cap to send that spark to the sparkplug.  Well, it does that eight times every revolution of the motor.  

So, when you see the needle on your tachometer hit “3″, (assuming you have a V8), then this process is occurring 24,ooo times a minute.  400 times a second, if you need an easier interval to grasp.  

Ok, so now we get to my failure.  I replaced the entire system, save the actual rotating stock of the engine.  I did it in the cold, often with hardly any light.  But I did it.  Like a badass.  Then one day I got looking at my points and noticed a small nut was missing off of the points.  I thought not too much of it.  Then I had an OCD attack.  I try not to make this part of me too well known, but I have OCD in certain areas of my life like a motherfucker.  If I have not changed my oil within the last month, I can’t sleep at night.  If I have a loose doorknob, I can’t use that door.  Knowing I left tools out will make me break out in cold sweats.  Or hot sweats. I guess that would depend more on the weather.

Anyway.  I decided to turn over a new leaf and not flip out about one missing nut.  I decided I was not going to spend an entire day digging for something that may well be anywhere in my garage, laying in some nook or cranny of the engine, etc.  

That nut wedged into the rotating stock of the distributor.  And destroyed my vacuum advance timing system.  Now I have to pull the whole system out and I may have destroyed my camshaft ($350), my distributor ($125), definitely cost me a new set of points ($10), and a good three days of work.  

I will avoid most of that cost by simply replacing the engine.  I have a 345 sitting on a stand waiting to go in.  But it will be a shitty couple of days of work.  It will also require me to fabricate a few parts, like a transmission mount for the 727 (a.k.a. Torqueflight 8) that will replace the Borg Warner Model Nine (a.k.a. Torqueflight 7) and maybe a driveline or two.  I will be covered in grease and hatefulness for at least a week if it goes down like that.  

And the biggest part of it all is the guilt.  I let the Scout down.  I have always been an overly emotional person in limited respects.  That old girl has been nothing but good to me and I let her down.  My fuck up destroyed the distributor, maybe more.  Not any failure on the part of the manufacturer.  Not any failure of the parts I bought.  I failed the Scout.  And I hate it.  I can’t even look at it.  

One time, I was married.  Like most crazy people, she was unreliable, and the deployments were long.  Things went predictably.  And in that cast iron twilight between us being over and her being gone, when the truth was out but the future arrangements not made, she would cower and writhe every time I brushed her skin or any time I laid a hand on her crying shoulder.  I never understood and took it for hate.  As I loaded her into a Pinto I had bought and got running for her, I asked her about it.  She told me through the hangover:

It burns.  It burns whenever you touch me and it hurts.  It’s the guilt.  It’s like fire on me.  I can’t take it.

So it wasn’t hate, or simple avoidance.  It was survival.  And now I look at the door to the garage and my failure and my shortcomings are there, under the hood of one cared about and cared for, inadequately it turns out.  And when I go in there, it burns.  I flush and hate it and I want to die a little.  

But I won’t be like that girl.  I won’t fail again because the guilt drives me to continuing faults.  I’m taking the 727 to the shop today.  I’m ordering the distributor.  I’m reserving the engine hoist.  And it hurts to think about touching the Scout.  It hurts to even think of getting under it and removing any more parts, after I failed at so simple a task before.  

But I will.  

Women come and go. Scouts are forever.

Beer (again)

I was talking to a girl at the bar the other day.  Well, she was talking to me about what’s wrong with men.  At length. At painful, awful, leg-stabbing length.

I would never submit into rational discussion that men do not have a set of problems unique to our gender or that we do not at times exasperate or otherwise irritate females individually and as a population.  I can say, however, that I am in no way living in the delusion that women are immune from confusing, disgusting, or immoral activity.  For instance: I have had one man in my whole of existence talk to me at length as a stranger in a bar about any prior relationship.  I have had numerous strange drunk women tell me details about their recent or not-so-recent relationships that I had no desire to learn.  She spoke like her tongue was only recently introduced into her mouth. Her movements spilled corn syrup smelling wine on me.

She was telling me why I am an asshole and how she could tell right away and this long clear drop of personal fluid fell out of her overly painted and tremendously pouty lip.  We both looked down at it and shared a brief moment of silence.

“Hey,” I said loud enough she could hear me over the din, drawing her eyes up to mine, “that fell out of your face.”

“My face?”

“Yeah, it was supposed to stay in your face.  You can’t just put that anywhere.”

“What is it?”

“Slobber.”

“Oh.”

She stared at it a few seconds.  There was no shame, just perplexity.  And so I tried to get back to the game. I felt a weak tug on my sleeve.

“Hey.”

I looked back at her.

“Do you like chardonnay?”

“Not really.  Not most of them. I only pretend to like white wine because chicks dig it.”

“Really?”

“Really.  I hate that shit.”

“I think I could tell if a guy just liked something for me. Those girls are retarded.”

“Seems to be a epidemic.”

She looked down at her cohesive globular leavings on the bar and contemplated some great mystery unkown to the likes of me.

A weak tug fell upon my sleeve again and I looked into her unfocused, but probably honest eyes.

“Do you think I’m a bitch?”

I thought about it.

“No.”

She smiled a little, more dribble threatening to make a break for it and fall to the polished hardwood.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I don’t think you’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

“How often do you come in here?”

“Often enough. I like it here. Usually, it’s quiet.”

“I like quiet places,” she yelled at me.

I drank down the rest of my beer and regarded her for signs she may vomit upon me. She smiled like a Labrador retriever and I smiled back and turned to the game.  Points had made their way onto the board while I was distracted.  Irritability finds me a hard target when the right beers are offered at two dollars a pint.  The team had rallied and sallied forth and such and had brought themselves back into the game, but I feared the time was late and the quarter the fourth and no amount of heroics would ever save the day.  As with most heroics, theirs were inadequate, save for making the eventual loss the more dramatic.

And so I watched the game end and she watched me drink and eventually a tug, the weakest yet, pulled on me.  I turned to her and her eyes were wet like before and her mouth pouty like before and her nurse’s scrubs out of place, like before.  But her eyes were a different kind of wet.  And her mouth a different kind of pout.  I asked her:

“You have a rough day?”

She nodded and I gave a little tug on her sleeve and what passes for a smile.  When she turned, her arm brushed up against mine, skin on skin and it stayed there. She went to her wine glass and stared out of the windows at the sky turning from azurite into a Monet and I watched the next game kick off and stayed through the end.

We’re all assholes. We’re all beautiful.

Misanthropy Is Growing Out Of My Face

I feel a disappearance coming on.  It’s in the way the sky moves and the way I breathe and in the way I spend hours alone and want only more solitude.  I’ve been feeling the urge of a breakaway.  I want to wander out away from people I know and crowds I’ve already seen and lose myself in my own program.

Everyone is irritating me.  Everyone is bothering me.  I hate answering questions.  I hate being available.  I want to be alone.

I want to cancel Facebook, the awful evil that it is, and stop pretending that my friends and my status is anyone else’s business.  The phone, the sleek and titanium industrial beauty that it is, will be thrown in the river.  I want to the runoff to claim it and move my list of phone numbers and my voicemails and all those texts I don’t read away into Utah.  Into Powell, or Mead.  Fuck, move them off to Mexico.  I hate talking on the phone.  The phone is where the problems live, my friend.

People should not be able to contact me whenever they feel like it.  I should not be tempted to ram home some key strokes and initiate some conversation when the silence of the bar at noon time is just a little too much.  I want to be left alone at the bar.

I want the cougars and the college girls and the moms and the barflies to leave me the fuck alone.  Take your fetish, whichever one I fulfill for you that minute, that day, and project it on to someone else.  Yeah you.  I don’t give a fuck how much you want to be with a funny guy.  I don’t care how much you wish I was more complicated.  I don’t care that the time I’ve spent in the gym and the genetics of generations of badassery distiguish me totally from your artistic bitch-ass ex-boyfriend. Or current boyfriend.  Or whatever. I don’t care. Speaking of exes, I don’t give a fuck, stop talking to me. Lalalalala. I can’t hear you, go bitch to someone else.  I would be hanging out with my friends all the time if I had you to go home to, too.  Seriously, shut the fuck up.  You know what I did one time? To a thirty something divorcee just like you?  I took the advice of that guy on Forty Year Old Virgin and did nothing but ask her questions about herself.  She barely even got my name out of me.  You know why I did that? Because I was horny. And it worked. I’m not horny, you’re boring, I’m trying to watch the game, so go away.

Family can fuck off, too.  You know what’s going on in my life right now? No, you sure don’t. That’s on purpose.  I see no reason to keep you current in my comings and goings and my preference in brand of Italian bread crumbs.  You know what? I use oatmeal and brewer’s barley in my meatloaf, so fuck off.  Yeah, I was there for every goddamn holiday this year. I wasn’t in another country.  I wasn’t in harm’s way.  But I was in a constant state of being irritated to the point of violence.  You know what Christmas means to me? It means I am bored out of my fucking mind by everybody discussing their families.  I got a family, too.  It’s called my books and my guitars.  And I had to leave them at home to watch spoiled kids get worse.  Yeah, I bought Christmas presents this year.  My broke ass bought two sets of nickel strings and a fifth of Turkey.  My Christmas dinner sits on ice and requires little cleanup. That’s why my holidays are awesome and your shit sucks.

And friends.  Jesus fuck, people.  If I didn’t answer the phone, that means I didn’t want to talk, was too busy to talk, or just straight left my phone at home.  No shit, that’s how it works.  If you call and I don’t answer, repeated showings on my missed call list will not make it any more likely I will magically decide to spend my time with a phone jammed in my ear or that I will magically be healed of my misanthropy and want to go “hang at your place a while.”

And the dumb fucks at Carquest.  How did you get that job?  Did some short bus roll over in the parking lot and they scraped together the dregs of any retarded kids still breathing?  What the fuck is wrong with you people?  And you don’t stock that kid of hardware.  It’s a fucking brass nut in a standard size that goes to the set of points your dumb ass sold me the day before, and you don’t stock it?  I want to use your face for my next set of points.  I want to stomp your head into my vacuum advance, run my coil wire up your nose, and use my sledge hammer for the distributor cap.  Yeah, you.  The little creepy dude who has never seen a set of feeler gauges.  Did your father hate you?  He must have hated you to have raised you with so limited a skillset of fundamental goddamn mechanic aptitudes.

And you, the motherfucking tramp with the goddamn degree in incompetent government horseshit.  Fuck you.  You cost me over a thousand dollars this month.  I don’t know what kind of lifestyle you’re used to, but in my world, that’s like sentencing me to fucking freeze to death classes at eviction university.  Yeah, now I look like the dipshit calling all my bill giving entities and explaining your dumb ass away.  I hate you.  I have a guitar sitting in hock because of you.  I couldn’t afford to re-up my small game tags because of you.  You know what that means to me? Starvation.  I pay my forty dollars a year so I can go out and shoot/catch tasty food-that-breathes/swims and save myself having to buy a goddamn chicken everyday.  Have you seen this fucking guy? THIS fucking guy cannot live on less than the equivalent of a chicken a day.  I have burliness to maintain, fuckstick.  Your inability to file a piece of paper correctly will have me looking like fucking Jude Law inside a week.  I can already count my ribs.  Fuck!

Maybe I should shave my beard.